A full June moon crests the trees outside the window. Sucking on cigarettes ad slurping on rye whiskey mixed with coke--with ice--which is significant as the music the ice makes as it rattles around inside the glass is a music that is magnificent within my spirit, harkens ancient echoes of joyous, boisterous drunken days when insouciance flowed with a fiery frnzy adn females flitted in and out of my arms. Distant thunder threatens the full moon, it's reverberating winds stirring the trees, blowing back the worn, faded curtains on the window. Sitting, smoking, drinking and writing--I chant a vanquished, ancient chant, laud bone and sinew, cartlidge and restless lust with the language of desire and the solace of surrender, emit a hoary odour of dried blood, remnant passion, stark embrace and an edible stain. Purgatory words echoing in the murky chamber of memory. Nights pass like this--murky with rye whiskey and cigarettes. Nothing particularily wrong with that. There are some impliations, healthwise, I suppose---so be it. Certain things you trade off to achieve a notion of balance.